Guys, I don't speak French. Jussaying. This one was done at like, 1 am in the morning. >__>;
And this time I remember I was inspired by Cirque du Soleil's Mirko. Too lazy to link though. Haha.
Danser Avec Moi
“Come in,” the voice invited me. It was toneless, pitchless and yet so alluring, like a sinful thought. Everything was surreal here, taking on an ephemeral glow, like I was immersed in a dream from which I could not wake up.
Following the voice, I stepped through the threshold to behold the scene set in front of me. It was a setting of pure white. There were no walls, there was only distance. The floor beneath my bare feet was soft, yet hard at the same time, caressing my feet with a hundred tiny nails and the feeling of a soft, fluffy carpet.
I turned around to look at the doorway that I had stepped through, but as I turned, I caught sight of myself and stopped. It was me, skin blanched by a dress darker than the darkest nights. It shimmered and flickered, the ends licking the air as flames caressed by the air. It was smooth, silk-like and weightless. My hair twisted up, piled atop my head; black adorned with the rubies of the deepest reds.
The music floated around the room, a slow march of bass drums, woodwind and strings, a slow, elegant tone filled with urgency and mystery.
The touch of a hand; I was pulled away, spinning into the arms of another, spiraling further from that door of black. With every spin it grew further and further into the void of white, swallowed by the sheer brightness.
Unaffected, I turned to my partner as we twirled in a lazy waltz. I saw not his face, but a hat - black with a deep purple plumage, a tuxedo of black, a red shirt and white rose - all flickering with the same ephemeral flame.
A last spin and our hands parted, fingers upon fingers like the last touch of a butterfly as it flutters by a petal in the wind. A spin, round and round and round and another pair of hands caught my waist. I closed my eyes and immersed myself in the rhythm, the long dips and passionate leaps, my hands on his shoulders, his on my waist.
The silky touch of a feather on my neck caused my eyes to draw open once more and I saw that from his face, there were tiny petals - white and flowing to nowhere, caught in my hair, on my dress, floating in the currentless air. One last dip and I twisted away, stretching my hand out for this next dance.
It was a woman, golden curls cascading over her shoulders. She was dressed in white, with streams of red pouring down from her breast, fluttering off as we danced, step for step, slow and passionate with the lilting melody. She opened her mouth; a whisper of breath. There was nothing, yet a world’s worth of story.
We conversed in silent worlds, exchanging a world of story. One moment she was the princess, the next I a queen. She a pauper and I a miner. Royalty, peasants, aristocrats, we lost all to the music.
We leaned in close and shared a fleeting kiss of lost passion and I twirled, gracing through the endless hall, sharing endless words without meaning, lost amidst a flurry of flickering colors, red, white, black, purple. The scrape of needles, the tenderness of a petal, the ache of lost love, the joy of simplicity.
The sound of a woman’s crooning joined the tuneless music. A lonely wail, a thrumming passion in the heat of ecstasy.
Many a time I changed hands with partners, yet I did not grow weary. I chose rather, to truly experience. The cry of agony, the fluttering of red butterflies from gouges touched by my hands. The pleas of mercy amidst my unrelenting pace. The music accelerated and it became a blur, red to black, black to white, and white to red.
As though my strings were cut, I halted, the black dress floating around me to a shimmering stop. I remember the black doorway and sought to return. As a memory, my first partner returned, whisking me into a pace of distasteful passion. I wished to leave, yet he did not let me go. There was no red, no matter what I did, only black and purple, a featureless face. The music did not end and I was caught in his grip.
Leave me be, said I.
Why so, my child? He inquired of me, never leaving the agonizing pace, so slow.
I wish to leave, I wish not to die here, I told him.
Die, my child? Do you not remember?
There is but nothing to understand, I insisted. I wish to leave, said I.
But my child. Do you not remember?
There is but nothing to remember. Let me return, I implored.
Return? The dead do not return, my child. I tell you, you are no more of the living. This world is not of the living, nor of dreams. None do from here depart.
I tell you I will, I insisted.
But how my child? You are dead.
I opened my mouth. This time there were no words.
He laughed, cruel, rich, joyous and piteous. Welcome, my child. This is your afterlife.
The music did not fade.
